It's a Mad, Mad World
by BeTheWorld
Summary: "He's done it; he's won. So why does it feel like he's lost so much in the process?" Harry learns to heal and move on in the wake of the final battle with Voldemort. Begins immediately after the end of the war and leads into the Epilogue. Post-DH, Canon Compliant. Please R&R! :D
1. In the Wake of Battle

**Disclaimer**: All characters, ideas, themes, and places presented in the following that are not of my own creation are the sole property of JK Rowling.

—CHAPTER ONE—

_In the Wake of Battle_

The echoes of dying screams bounce through Harry's mind, coming to him thick and muffled through the hanging smoke of battle. As hard as he's fought for this day, for this moment, it seems to have come at much too high a cost. Fred, impossibly full of life, young and finally starting to live his dreams. Gone. Remus, complete at last, happy even in the world's darkest moments because he'd finally found a place to fit, a place to be loved. Gone. Tonks, beautiful, smiling, radiant, a new mother. Gone. Colin Creevey and his insufferably snapping camera. Gone. They're all gone.

And Harry's left alone; terrifyingly, frightfully alone. They've died for him, died so that he can live. It doesn't seem right, doesn't seem fair. His world is shattered, ruined, destroyed. It's his fault, all of it. If only he'd been stronger, faster, better in some way, he could have saved them from unnecessary death.

He twists and thrashes in his blankets, sheets tangling awkwardly in his legs. There's nothing he can do for them now; they're _gone_. He can't save them, can't bring them back. All is lost. A high, cold laugh is building itself in his mind, shattering what's left of his world, blowing it all to bits and dust, scattering everywhere, crushing anything in its path.

A hand shakes his shoulder violently. "Harry, mate, wake up."

The voice cuts through his nightmare like a sword of blazing light. The pieces begin to fit themselves back together, slotting into place until the world begins to resemble something recognisable again.

He wakes with a start, sweat stinging his eyes as he stares wildly around the Gryffindor dormitory. His breath is coming out in wild, terrified gasps, his heart racing. His gaze fixes on the man, unfamiliar for a second, who's looking down at him with sympathy, the expression half-hidden behind the small, watery smile he's attempting. Late afternoon sunlight illuminates his face, making his head look as though it's surrounded by a wildly dancing inferno. The high contrast against his pale skin makes him look more tired than Harry can remember him ever looking, the deep set bags under his eyes giving way to sunken cheek bones and slumped shoulders.

It's Ron, Harry tells himself in an attempt to calm himself down, just Ron. Harrowed by war and exhausted beyond all comprehension, but still Ron. Harry feels his breathing begin to slow, a cautious serenity replacing the unadulterated panic he had felt in his nightmare as the events of last night begin to drift back to him. All is not lost. He's done it, he's finished the task that he's always subconsciously assumed would be his last, and he's lived to tell the story.

"You're okay, mate," Ron says, and his voice sounds even more ragged than he looks. "It's over. We're all going to be okay."

But even as Ron says the words, Harry wants to protest against them, to scream and cry and pound his fists like the petulant child he was never permitted to be. Young, so young, all of them. It's _not_ going to be okay. How can it be, when so many are gone, dead and not yet buried, their bodies still holding the ghost of warmth? He feels his fists ball in the sheets under him, twisting the thin material until it becomes taught under his fingers. His nails cut painfully into the palms of his hands, and very slowly, he begins to feel some small amount of sanity trickling back to him. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he sits up slowly, disentangling his legs with some difficulty, and he scrubs a hand over his face.

"Yeah," he says, his voice coming out rough and scratchy. "We'll make it through this. We will make it through this, right?"

There's a small, hopeless part of him that desperately needs Ron's reassurance. It's the part of him that says they're still so young, only seventeen, and have already seen more horror and bloodshed than most men three times their age, the part that wishes he'd had a choice in all this, the part he's never indulged. None of it seems fair; it isn't right. They don't deserve this.

"'Course," Ron says with a forced smile that looks more like a grimace. "When have you ever not made it through something?"

But therein lies the problem, Harry thinks. He's the Boy Who Lived, and lived again, and kept on living, no matter what anyone threw at him. But others, so fragile, so delicate, like he should have been all along…they were —

"They're having a formal wake," Ron says, interrupting his thoughts and sitting on the edge of Harry's bed heavily, staring at the floor. "Starts in a few minutes. I'm not sure if I want to go or not."

For some reason, the knowledge that others are hurting hits Harry like a brick. He's been so caught up in his own spiralling thoughts that he hasn't even paused to wonder how the rest of the world is faring in the wake of the war. He's beginning to feel guilty that he slept while others had clearly spent the past however many hours cleaning up the trail of damage he left behind him. He's not sure if he wants to go either, not sure if he can face them all after he nearly caused so many of their deaths. The mere thought of Mrs Weasley blaming him for the death of one of her sons…it's inconceivable. He wants to pull the blankets over his head and never come out again. He doesn't want to see the mess he's made.

But then a small part of him, meek and cautious, the part that used to scream out at any injustice, a piece that feels injured and bruised after a full year on the run, tells him that it wouldn't be right to hide from the people who had laid their lives on the line for him. He _has_ to go down there, if only to say goodbye to his fallen friends, to make peace with the people still living who, like him, aren't sure what life is going to look like now that so much has been torn to shreds. He suddenly can't imagine staying in bed for another moment.

"No," he says, so firmly that Ron startles and looks up at him. "You're going. If you don't you'll never forgive yourself for not saying goodbye to…to them."

The unspoken name hangs between them like a physical presence, twisted and raw, wounds that are too fresh being sliced open again, and he can't make himself say _Fred_. You need to say goodbye to _Fred_. Somehow, he knows that if he says it aloud, it will make it all too real, too painful for either of them to handle.

Ron nods grimly. It doesn't need to be said. They both understand; Ron always understands. "Then we should probably get down there," he says hoarsely. "Mum sent me up here to find you."

Harry nods but doesn't speak as he gets out of bed. There's nothing to be said. He knows he looks like a wreck; he'd slept in the same clothes he's been wearing for a week, and his hair is greasy and caked with mud, sticking up at odd angles even more than usual. Ron doesn't look much better, though, so Harry just slips into his shoes and starts down the steps, Ron following behind him silently.

He tries hard not to look at the once familiar common room as they pass through it. The fireplace that used to crackle cheerfully is now extinguished, dark and oddly bare-looking. The vivd red sofas and squashy arm chairs that they spent so many evenings in are now muted in colour by the dust of the blasted castle walls that's settled on them. There's a hole five feet high and at least ten feet wide where the entrance to the girls' dormitory had been just days before. It's all ruined now, destroyed beyond recognition.

Harry feels his hands clenching into tight fists as he pushes the portrait hole open and climbs through, holding back the angry tears that are threatening to fall. They walk side by side through the half-intact corridors, and it all seems so _wrong_. He had won, so why does it feel like he's lost so much in the process? There's the spot where he'd succeeded in tricking Peeves during their first year, but now it's nothing more than a pile of rubble. The staircase with the trick step that Neville always forgot to skip, but it's missing its railing. The tapestry that once hid his favourite secret passage, now reduced to thin shreds of material hanging limply over the sad-looking entrance to a dark corridor. And worst of all, so bad that he almost turns tail and runs all the way back to Gryffindor Tower, is the marble staircase into the entrance hall, one side completely blasted away and unusable, the other still slick with the blood of the fallen.

The doors to the Great Hall stand open, a soft light emanating from them, and Harry hears the muted sound of hundreds of hushed voices. He and Ron make their way into the room, and a heavy silence falls over the groups of people as they pass, most of them turning to stare, some nodding in solemn respect, all with eyes stung red with tears. A few that Harry knows stop him to share their condolences and words of congratulations, pulling him into tight embraces. One man that neither of them recognise places a firm hand on Ron's shoulder and, looking between the two of them, says, very seriously, "Thank you, boys," before turning back to his family. Another man, dressed in a long black cloak, bows so low as they pass that his hat topples off his head.

Harry spots the Weasleys, gathered in a thick cluster, almost the same as they'd been when he'd last seen them standing over Fred, and he nudges Ron gently, pointing and making his way through more and more people, endless families mourning the loss of their loved ones. This time, he's prepared for what he'll see when he reaches them, but there's still a part of him that cries out, inconsolable, at the sight of Remus and Tonks lying there lifeless. He knows, though, that this is not the time to turn and run; he's not the only one who's lost, and he isn't the only one feeling this ache.

"Mrs Weasley," he says softly when they reach the family. He wants to comfort her most of all, the woman who's been like a mother to him for seven years. Fred had been as good as a brother to him, and he wants to say something profound and heartfelt, but all that comes out is, "I…I'm so sorry."

She turns at his touch, face stained with tears, and for one brief, horrible moment, Harry thinks his worst fears have come to fruition, that Mrs Weasley is blaming him for Fred's death. But then a new wave of tears wells in her eyes, and she pulls him into a strong hug, her short arms wrapping around him securely.

"Oh, Harry, dear," she mutters into his hair, kissing his temple gently. "I'm so happy you're alright. I don't know if I could have handled losing two sons in one night."

At her words, something in him seems to break, and it's like a dam has been released. Suddenly, everything is flooding out of him in a giant, wracking sob, and he collapses into her, tears streaming down his face, his hands fisted fiercely in the bright crochet of her mud-stained dress. She supports his weight easily, her hand rubbing soothing circles into his back, muttering words of comfort to him and telling him to let it out, that it's okay. He stays there for a long moment, feeling safe for the first time in a long time. When he's finally collected himself enough to stand straight, he pulls back and stares at her, tears still leaking down his cheeks.

"Look at you, face covered in dirt," she scolds with a shaky laugh, swiping her thumb under his eyes. "You're going to be alright, dear. We all are."

Harry glances down at Fred's cold body where George is crouched, clutching his brother's hand and staring helplessly at his face as if hoping Fred will come back to life just for a moment, if only to tell him what to do, how to live now that he's the last half of something that had once been whole and perfect and easy.

Mrs Weasley squeezes his shoulder one last time and gives him a smile before turning back to her husband. Harry makes his way to Remus' body, refusing to look at the people that are staring, dumbfounded, at the sight of The Great Harry Potter breaking down like he just did. Instead, he sits cross-legged near Remus' head, alone, and reaches out a shaking finger to trace the lines of the old scar on his cheek.

"Remus, I — I'm scared," he admits in a low voice, staring at his friend's lifeless face. "What do I do now that you're all gone? First my parents, then Sirius, and now you…" He shakes his head, wiping at the tears that are still falling down his face. "You were one of the first people that loved me. You were the last piece of my dad. And now you're gone and Tonks…and Teddy's never going to know how amazing you both were."

He stops for a moment, feeling the sting of tears beginning to form again as he fingers the tattered material of Remus' robes. "I'll tell him," he says finally, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. "I'll tell him that you were a great man, that his mother was beautiful and full of life. He won't grow up like I did. He'll know where he comes from. I promise. I…it's the best I can think of to remember you by. And if anything ever…ever happens to Andromeda, I'll be there for him. I'll take care of him, just like I know you or Sirius would have done for me."

He's silent for a long while, his tears drying themselves out as he stares down at Remus' face, transfixed. He's about to get up to leave when he hears a loud wail echo over the crowd of quiet mourners. His head snaps up, as do many others, searching for the source of the noise.

Draco Malfoy, hair tangled and all over the place, dried mud caking his normally pristine clothing, is flung over a body, loud sobs coming from him, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Pansy Parkinson is threading her fingers through his hair with a broken look on her face, Narcissa crouched near him, whispering the words of a mother in his ear, while Lucius stands nearby, looking on disapprovingly.

"Blaise, no," Draco's crying, beating his fist weakly against the other boy's chest. "No, you can't be gone. Please, Blaise, please."

Narcissa raises her head after a moment, looking to Lucius in a silent plea, apparently at a loss for how to comfort her son. But the man merely raises an eyebrow and looks away, and Narcissa's gaze roams helplessly around the room as she rubs Draco's back slowly.

Her eyes fall on Harry, and she seems to startle when she realises he's staring back. Something in him coils and springs, unfamiliar in the context of the Malfoys, but recognisable nonetheless. Pity. Malfoy has lost one of his best friends to a war that Blaise hadn't really even taken sides in. Harry can't even begin to comprehend the hole he would feel in his chest if he had lost Ron or Hermione. He frowns slightly at the surprising realisation that, as much as he doesn't get along with Malfoy, the boy is not a cold, unfeeling, inhuman shell. Even if he normally tries to hide the fact that he's just like everyone else, pride and decorum hold no place in a situation like this.

Harry inclines his head, his gaze still fixed on Narcissa. He doesn't smile, doesn't move to speak with her, but his expression conveys what he needs to say. _Thank you_.

Narcissa turns back to her son without acknowledging Harry, but when she bends to speak to him again, Malfoy pulls back from Blaise's body, his sobs quieting as he wipes at his tears. Harry watches him nod morosely before he looks away, not wanting to intrude any longer.

A silence falls over the room just then, starting at the front of the hall and continuing back as people take notice of Professor McGonagall standing in Dumbledore's old spot at the podium in front of the High Table. She's waiting there patiently, allowing people to take their time to gather themselves before she begins to speak. When she does, her voice is low and mournful.

"We have fought long and hard for this day," she begins quietly, "and we have lost many along the way. Students, teachers, friends, family. It's been difficult, and I feel obligated to say that it will remain difficult. But our loved ones did not die in vain. They sacrificed so that we, and our children, may have a brighter future. Do not mourn their parting simply because they are gone. Instead, celebrate them as _you _remember them, and honour their memories by ensuring that we do not repeat our mistakes."

Her voice has begun to shake, and she stops there, bringing a tartan handkerchief to her face. Several people around Harry sniff.

Professor McGonagall takes a deep breath, her left hand still clutching tightly to the scrap of material. "It's been said that only the strong survive, but as I look out at our fallen friends, both here and elsewhere in the wizarding world, I must say that only the brave have fallen." She pauses to allow her gaze to sweep the silent room.

"We've all lost people," she goes on. "Some close to us, some we didn't realise we would miss until they were gone. But all of us, we've got to learn to pick up and move on. I know it won't happen quickly or easily, but it _will_ happen eventually.

"Don't remember them as they are now. They wouldn't want you too, They'd want you to _laugh_, be happy, enjoy the world that they gave you through their sacrifices. Remember them as they were, when they were full of life and carefree," she says.

Harry feels something inside him breaking a bit, and the tears that had dried themselves out earlier begin to well in his eyes again. He finds Remus' cold hand blindly and clings to it, feeling helpless.

"I know it's a tough thing to do. I've lost people as well, but we'll get through it. I believe in us all. So remember them how you know they'd want to be remembered. Mourn them in the ways they'd want you to mourn. Move on with your lives, but never forget."

The wake ends quietly with people paying respects to their lost loved ones, most taking the bodies of friends and family home to give them a proper burial and to have private ceremonies. Harry is reluctant to leave at first, afraid that he won't get to say a final goodbye to Remus or Tonks. He's sorely tempted to throw himself over Remus the way Malfoy had done to Blaise, but when Mrs Weasley catches sight of him gripping his friend's hand as everyone's prepares to leave, she crosses the room to him and places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"They're coming with us, dear," she tells him softly. "Come on, up you get. There you go."

It takes a great deal of effort for Harry to pull himself to his feet, and he has to lean on Mrs Weasley a bit for support as they make their way back over to the rest of the family. Despite having slept, he's still just so exhausted: emotionally, physically, mentally. He needs to get away from everything, from all the pressure and the stares and the whispers. Harry barely notices Mrs Weasley conjuring two caskets around Remus and Tonks before leading him back across the room.

Hermione hugs him tightly when he reaches the rest of the Weasleys, and Ron places a heavy arm around his shoulders.

"The wards on the castle are still down," Mr Weasley says quietly after a moment of silence. "We can Apparate from here."

They all nod in understanding. "To the Burrow, then?" Harry asks, wanting to get back to the only other place he's ever called home.

Mrs Weasley's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Actually, dear, we're going to the Potter family plot first. Remus requested that he be buried with his closest friends," she says, and Harry feels a lump begin to grow in his throat.

"Right," he says thickly, not quite sure how to voice the things he's feeling. "I…thank you. All of you. For being here for me."

"Don't worry about it, mate. That's what families are for, yeah?" Bill says, his arm tight around Fleur's waist.

Harry looks at all of them, standing in a circle around him, all there to support him. A family. Just what he's always wanted. So many people that care about him, that would do anything for him, just as he would do anything for them.

"Yeah. Family," he says, and for the first time that day, he feels a bit of the pain uncoiling inside him, giving way to something warm and healing.


	2. Farewell Until Tomorrow

—CHAPTER TWO—

_Farewell Until Tomorrow_

The graveyard in Godric's Hollow looks much different than it did the last time Harry had visited it. Now that the cold, unforgiving frost of winter has passed, everything seems brighter, happier, more cheerful despite the sombre mood that hangs in a heavy fog around their small group. The warm sun shines pleasantly throughout the thick cover of trees that surround the small plot, and birds are singing in the trees, almost as if they know this is a new beginning.

They make their way down the walk quietly, winding through generations of Harry's ancestors to the place where his mother and father are buried. Harry's glad he's at least visited this place once before; it isn't as much of a shock to see his parent's names engraved immovably in stone this time. Still, he feels a lump growing in his throat for the hundredth time that day as he stares down at the headstones.

_James Potter. Lily Potter_. Both died too young, died fighting; beloved mother, father, son, daughter, friend. Who had stood at this grave before? he wonders. Who had been here for their burials? Had Sirius already been imprisoned? Or had he stood here by Remus' side, the two friends supporting each other through the unthinkable? Had they wondered where Wormtail had gone? Had Aunt Petunia ever visited this place in secret?

Dozens of unanswerable questions circle through his mind. Harry feels a small hand slip into his, and he glances over. Ginny smiles back at him, squeezing his fingers before resting her head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm tight around her, pulling her closer, enjoying the warm comfort of a familiar presence. Even through the haze of guilt that Harry is still feeling, he knows that things will get better. The fighting is over, and it's time for him to finally claim his reward. He's allowed to love again, to laugh, to live his life as it was meant to be. No more battles, no more fighting, no more loss. It's finally over.

"Harry," Ginny says softly after a while, pulling him from his thoughts. "Look at this."

She motions toward a grave next to his father's, one that Harry knows lies empty. _Sirius Black; _friend, hero, fighter. Harry stares at it blankly for a moment; he hadn't noticed it when he'd last been here. It had been covered in snow or ice, or maybe he'd just been in too much of a hurry, too distracted.

"We had it put in two summers ago," Mrs Weasley says, coming to stand next to them. "It was part of his will, just like Remus. They all wanted to be buried together."

"Why…why didn't anyone tell me?" Harry asks in a choked voice that holds no accusation.

"We were going to tell you eventually," she says, smiling down at the headstone with watery eyes. "There just wasn't a good time to bring it up."

There's a soft pop just then, and they turn to find a woman dressed all in black standing next to the two freshly dug graves. She's cradling a small bundle of blankets close to her chest, and she has a mournful expression on her face, though there is no evidence of tears in her eyes.

"Andromeda," Mr Weasley says gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry. We'll all miss Nymphadora very much."

Andromeda's lips pull a bit tighter, and she nods. "It was her time… She wouldn't have wanted to live without Remus by her side," she tells him solemnly, rocking the sleeping baby in her arms.

Harry moves closer to her, almost cautious, reaching out a hand toward the bundle. "Can I…?" he asks, glancing up at her.

She smiles at him sadly and holds the baby out to him without speaking. Harry takes him gently in his arms, gazing down at his godson's face for the first time. The baby stirs in his sleep but doesn't wake. "Hello, Teddy," he says softly. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Something wrenches in Harry's heart as he smooths a lock of sandy hair from Teddy's forehead. The boy looks so much like Remus, even at this age. It's hard for him to pass the baby back to Andromeda, hard for him to resist clutching the last piece of Remus as tightly to his chest as he can. But he'll be able to watch Teddy grow up, he reminds himself. He'll teach him to ride a broom, and he'll be there to take him shopping for his first wand. Giving him up now doesn't mean giving him up for good.

Their small ceremony passes quickly after that, just Harry, Hermione, the Weasleys, Andromeda and baby Teddy. They all speak of friends close enough to be family, of the kind of love that binds people inextricably together, and once everyone's said their final words and begun to depart for Fred's burial, Harry takes a moment to be alone with the graves of all the people he's loved and lost. He stares down at the headstones, reaching down to trace his father's name lightly with his fingers.

"Someone once told me I ought to be more careful about how I chose my friends," he tells the empty graveyard, his hands shoved in his pockets. "I never really listened to him, though. My friends just kind of fell into my life, but the ones that stuck have grown close enough to be like a second family. And, well, they always say that you don't get to choose your family."

He pauses to look up at the trees overhead, a light breeze blowing the hair off his face. "I hope that wherever you all are, you're together, and you're happy. Mum, Dad, I think I'm going to be all right. Sirius and Remus looked after me as much as they could. I'm going to miss you all, but don't think I'll ever forget any of you."

He pauses for a moment, silent, contemplating this new world of burgeoning possibilities, so many things that were out of the question just a few days ago. He feels a small smile spread across his face and nods his head once, as if in affirmation of his victory. One of his hands rests on his parents' headstone briefly, and then, with a turn of his heel, he's gone.

* * *

The sun is just begging to set over the hills of Ottery St Catchpole when Harry appears in front of the Burrow. The house is more or less the same as it was last summer, and Harry feels a thrill of relief run through him when he notices that everything, right down to the fat, brown chickens in the garden, seems to still be in tact. From what he's seen over the past year, there aren't many wizarding structures left in Britain that haven't been at least partially destroyed by himself or Voldemort. The knowledge that the Burrow, of all places, seems to have survived is almost a consolation in itself.

He wanders to the back of the house and finds the Weasleys and Hermione gathered there, heads bent as if saying a prayer. Harry joins them, slipping an arm around Ginny's waist, a mix of emotions rolling through him. Parts of him are happy, excited for the future that he's at last allowed to have, but there are other pieces, pieces that he knows need a bit of attention, that are silently weeping at the loss of such a bright, shining person. Everyone's silent, unsure of what to say, of how to express the passing of such a dear friend and brother.

"I remember this one time," George says suddenly, making everyone jump a bit. They all glance at him, but his eyes are fixed on Fred's grave, unseeing, as though he's speaking directly to his twin. "We were about eleven and had just started at Hogwarts. Everything seemed all new and strange and wonderful, and Fred heard this rumour that there were loads of secret passages out of the school. He decided we should go try to find them." George laughs softly to himself, blinking tears away from his eyes. "So there we were, just these kids in robes two sizes too big, running around the castle in the middle of the night, prodding all the statues and bits of wall we could find with our wands. We didn't have anything to go on but word of mouth that these things even existed, but Fred was determined. 'If I can just get my hands on Zonko's,' he kept saying, 'the school'll never know what hit them.' I didn't believe him, but I went along anyway. He always knew what was best."

He's silent for a moment, and Harry glances around at the others. Hermione is smiling at George with tears in her eyes, Ron blinking furiously with his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and Percy is staring, stony faced, at the casket that holds his younger brother.

"You proved me wrong, Fred," George says finally, a small smile on his face. "If I was half as smart as you, I'd have known you'd always prove me wrong. I miss you, mate, and I'm always going to."

* * *

They all begin to trickle back to the house after that, leaving George to have a moment alone to say a last goodbye, and when they make it into the kitchen of the Burrow, Harry calls for Kreacher. The elf appears with a crack, bowing low enough that his stubby nose touches the ground. With a pang, Harry is reminded of Dobby, the mad elf who had finally succeeded in his mission to save Harry's life after all these years.

"What can Kreacher be doing for Master?" the elf asks in his low, gravelly voice.

"I'd like you to find us the largest bottle of Firewhiskey you can carry and bring it back here, please," Harry tells him quietly as Charlie conjures extra chairs out of thin air, placing them around the already crowded scrubbed-wood table.

The elf grins up at Harry and disappears, eager to please. Harry shakes his head, smiling at the transformation Kreacher has undergone during the last few months. A few kind words, a few thoughtful gestures, and he'd made a complete turnaround. Hermione had been right all along. Kreacher reappears quickly, struggling under the weight of a bottle that's almost as tall as he is.

"Kreacher be taking the teacher's bottle from the Hogwarts kitchen, sir," he says, his thin arms shaking. "Is there anything else that Kreacher can be doing for Master?"

Harry fights back a small laugh at the sight of the elf having so much trouble and bends to take the bottle from his hands, placing it on the table. "No, Kreacher, that'll be all," he says as everyone moves to sit down.

"Thank you, Kreacher," Hermione says quietly.

The elf beams at her. "Kreacher is proud and much honoured to be serving Miss Hermy and all of Master's friends," he says before disappearing back to the school.

Ginny conjures eleven shot glasses the size of scotch tumblers and fills them all more than half full, ignoring the disapproving cluck from her mother. George takes his first, and once they all have glasses, he holds his up in a toast.

"To Fred," he says in a shaky voice, downing his entire glass in one go. They all follow suit, wincing as the burning liquid slides down their throats, and by the time they've all toasted Remus and Tonks as well, they've made a rather sizeable dent in the contents of the bottle. Bill refills all their glasses again, and everyone sits back in their seats, clutching at their drinks, throats stinging pleasantly, all of them lost in their thoughts.

"When we were kids," Ginny says after a while, smiling across the table at George, "I always thought you two were just _awful_." Everyone laughs. "I remember one time you stole my toy broomstick and charmed it pink and made it spray little heart shaped bubbles every time I tried to fly. I was so angry that I spent all night looking up hexes, then stole Mum's wand next morning and hit the both of you with a Bat-Bogey curse so hard that you couldn't see straight for hours. You both took it, though, and I think you were actually rather proud of me."

And so it goes. They talk late into the night about everything and nothing, swapping happy stories and painful ones alike. At some point, Neville shows up to pay his respects and they conjure him a chair, which he sinks into heavily, bleary-eyed and blinking from under a nasty looking gash on his forehead. He recounts the story of the first time he met Remus, the man who had given him his first taste of standing up for himself. The stories eventually shift to ones about their happier times at Hogwarts, and Mr and Mrs Weasley smile at Harry fondly as they tell him what his parents had been like when they knew them: so in love, proud of their new baby boy, tales of Lily's over-eager attempts at teaching her six-month-old son to do Charms, of James buying Harry his first toy broomstick for his first birthday, and of Harry, squealing with delighted laughter as Sirius pulled him from the toy broomstick and onto his own full-size one. Somehow, the story of "Malfoy the Amazing Bouncing Ferret" gets pulled out of the dregs of history, and Harry laughs earnestly along with the rest as Ron says loudly, "No, honestly, I swear to you, he must have gone twenty feet in the air when he bounced!"

It's nearing three in the morning when they finally fall into a comfortable silence, all of them more than a little bit drunk. Harry feels infinitely better, whether from the Firewhiskey or the warm glow of the fire or the company of friends, he can't be sure. But the world doesn't look nearly as bleak anymore as it did when he had woken up this afternoon.

"We should try to get some sleep," Neville says finally, slapping his hand on the table. "The professors are going to start rebuilding the castle tomorrow. Gran reckons anyone who's able should pitch in."

"And right she is," Mrs Weasley says and, always the mother, begins shooing them all off to bed. "Neville, you can stay in Ronald's room. I don't want you splinching yourself because you've had too much."

"Thanks Mrs Weasley," Neville says tiredly as they all start up the stairs.

"And no, Ron. Leave the whiskey here. You aren't to spend the entire night up drinking," she calls after them as Ron attempts to sneak the bottle up with them.

"Aw, come off it, Mum," Ron grumbles, and everything suddenly feels a bit more normal. "If we don't take this one, Harry can just make Kreacher get us more."

She's silent for a moment, pursing her lips as she stares between the three boys, sizing them up. "Well, you're all adults now, so I suppose you can make your own decisions," she says snippily, a bit frustrated. Then, softer, she adds, "But you all look so exhausted. Do try to get at least _some_ sleep. You could use it."


	3. The Art of Healing

**A/N**: I tend to like to let my stories exist without an author's note, but I just wanted to say a big thank you to those of you who have reviewed. Reviews are always great to get, and they make writing so much more fun. Now, keep reading and please, enjoy. :)

—CHAPTER THREE—

_The Art of Healing_

The next morning dawns bright and cheerful. Birds are chirping outside and there's a pleasantly warm breeze coming in from the open window next to Harry's cot. He stretches comfortably in bed, curling his toes into the mattress, his back cracking in a few places. It's the first time in a long while that he's slept without having nightmares, and he's more rested than he's been in what feels like years.

There's a quiet grunt from behind him as Ron heaves himself out of bed and begins poking around the room, looking for clean clothes and grumbling about breakfast. Harry rolls over and cracks his eyes open, but has to immediately slam them shut again. The fiery inferno that is Ron's bedroom is an assault on his senses, and he begins to feel a pounding headache building behind his eyes. He pulls the pillow over his head in an attempt to stop the churning in his stomach.

"I feel like I swallowed a Blast-Ended Skrewt," Neville's voice groans from somewhere on Harry's left.

Harry privately agrees, but the thought makes him feel even more sick, and he tries desperately to banish it from his mind. Slowly, he pulls the pillow from his face and sits up, eyes still screwed shut. He reaches for his glasses on the floor next to his bed and shoves them on his face clumsily, blinking as everything comes into sharper focus. Before he can really adjust, though, a set of fresh clothes collides with the side of his head.

"Put these on, Wonder Boy," Ron tells him, his voice gruff and raspy. "You've been in the same trousers for the past three weeks. 'S gross."

Harry pulls on the clean jeans and T-shirt mechanically, trying hard not to make any sudden motions. He's fairly sure that the seething roll of his stomach is reaching dangerous levels, and he doesn't want to make it any worse. Once Neville's dragged himself out of bed, all three of them stumble, half-conscious, down the stairs and into the kitchen. The smell of strong coffee pulls Harry to the counter, and he pours himself a steaming mug before collapsing into a chair next to Neville. Ron is sitting with his head slumped forward onto the table, one arm stretched out in front of him. Neville pinches at the bridge of his nose in pain.

"Morning," Hermione says brightly, brushing into the room with a smile on her face.

She receives three protesting grunts in reply.

"Were you up all night?" she asks disapprovingly, perching on a chair next to Ron as she sips at her tea. "You know, that wasn't very wise. We've a lot to get done today."

Ron turns his head to look at her, his cheek pressed into the wooden table. "You sound like my mother," he says sulkily.

"Speaking of your mother," Hermione says, raising an eyebrow at him, "I don't think she'd be too happy if she found any of you in this state."

Ron stares at her blankly for a moment, as if her words are barely being digested. "Hangover potion," he mumbles finally, turning so his face is buried in the table again, blocking out the light. "Cabinet by the door, third shelf."

Hermione huffs but moves to get the heavy bottle. "Completely useless, all of you," she mutters to herself as she sets out three goblets and pours a generous amount into each. "Men."

Harry sets down his coffee to pick up the bubbling wooden goblet, staring at its contents apprehensively. It's thick like mud and has a bright, acidic green colour.

"Drink it," Neville says, plugging his nose and downing his entire goblet in one go. He winces. "Tastes horrible, but it works."

Harry makes a face as he sniffs it. The potion somehow manages to smell like sour lemons, motor oil, and something spicy all at once. "Hangover potion?" he asks sceptically as Neville rises from his seat and pours himself some coffee. "Doesn't that seem a bit convenient?"

"Trust us, mate," Ron says, sighing as he leans back in his chair, headache apparently gone. "Instant relief."

Harry screws up his face against the gut-wrenching scent but gulps down the potion. As he gags and splutters, stomach revolting against the offending taste, the fireplace chimes and Mr Weasley stumbles out in a whirl of green flames and soot. A rushing sensation surges through Harry's body, sweeping down from the top of his head and out to the tips of his fingers, and he suddenly feels much more awake, as though the potion has cleared out all the bits of dust caught in the corners of his mind.

"Morning, everyone," Mr Weasley says cheerfully as he straightens up, brushing a large amount of ash from his shoulders. "You're all up. Excellent. I've just been into the office for a bit, and there's something rather important that I need to discuss with you." As he lowers himself into a chair, he catches sight of the bottle on the table. "You'll want to get that away before Molly sees it," he tells them in a slightly lowered voice.

"Before I see what, Arthur?" Mrs Weasley asks as she comes through the door into the kitchen, drawn in by her supernatural sense for detecting trouble. She catches sight of the potion bottle, and her eyes dart between it and the goblet still clutched in Harry's hand. She tuts reproachfully and shakes her head but doesn't comment on it. It seems that even the over-protective hand of Mrs Weasley can be softened in the wake of tragedy; Harry isn't sure, but he thinks he sees her smile sadly as she gathers the empty goblets from the table and replaces the bottle in the cabinet.

"Yes, well, as I was saying," Mr Weasley continues, looking between them as his wife begins to bustle about the kitchen fixing breakfast, "I need to speak with all four of you concerning something." The fireplace chimes once more as he speaks and Kingsley Shacklebolt strides out in robes of deep purple. "Ah, Kingsley. Wonderful. I was just about to speak with them."

"Kingsley," says Mrs Weasley happily, moving to the hearth and brushing a bit of dust from his collar. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"I'm here to speak with these four," Kingsley says in his slow, deep voice, a kind smile on his face. "There is much to discuss."

"Well, sit, sit," Mrs Weasley says, guiding him into a chair. "Would you like a cup of tea? I was just making one for myself."

"Tea would be lovely, Molly, thank you," he says, lowering himself into a chair, smiling at Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville. "The four of you have caused quite the excitement at the Ministry."

"How are things going over there?" Harry asks, picking his coffee back up. "I hear you're the interim minister?"

"Yes, yes," Kingsley says modestly, waving his hand through the air. "There's a lot of restructuring to be done, but we'll make it through. It's a very busy time."

"So what is it you wanted to speak with us about?" Hermione asks, looking between Kingsley and Mr Weasley curiously.

Kingsley takes a deep breath, glancing at Mr Weasley before leaning forward to fix them all with an intense stare, his elbows resting on the table. "Well, I was approached this morning with quite the interesting proposition," he begins, "and I felt that I should deliver the news in person. It seems that in light of your recent accomplishments, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has taken a heavy interest in all four of you."

Harry feels himself perk up and he sits straighter in his chair. "What sort of interest?" he asks, glancing sideways at Ron.

"The director himself came into my office this morning with a file on each of you," Kingsley says with a smile, "and he's asked me to put forward this idea, though keep in mind that he doesn't expect an immediate answer. It's a big decision to be made, and one that you should all consider carefully before jumping in. Thank you, Molly." He pauses to sip at the tea that Mrs Weasley has just placed in front of him.

"The department requests that you all be offered the opportunity to take your NEWT practicals this summer, with the intention of placing you directly into the Auror Training Program," he says. "Your written exams will be waived, as the department feels that the practical experience you all gained in the past year greatly outweighs the need for rote memorisation."

The offer sounds incredible, but still…Harry's unsure; it feels as though he's spent his entire life fighting, and he knows he's probably had enough 'Dark Wizard Catching' to last him a century. He's reminded of the way that he felt waking up yesterday, of the ragged, battle-worn expression he'd seen on Ron's face, of the hot sting of tears that had plagued him as they laid to rest everyone who had fallen. He glances sideways at Neville, who has suddenly gone tight-lipped, the gash over his eye deep and unforgiving, and then to Hermione, who's staring hard at the table, her finger tapping in a steady rhythm against the side of her tea cup, lost in thought.

"How…" Ron begins, stopping to clear his throat. "How long do we have to decide?"

Kingsley nods as though he understands, as though he knows what they're going through. "As I said, it's a difficult decision. We don't expect an immediate answer, but we will need to know how you all intend to proceed by the first of August," he says, looking at them all. "While I don't want you to feel as though I've pressured you in one way or the other, I will say that the Aurors would be lucky to have each and every one of you."

"What are our other options?" Hermione asks him quickly, knitting her hands together and placing them in her lap as she sits back in her chair.

"You will, like all Hogwarts students your age, be given the chance to retake your seventh year," he tells them carefully. "Of course, you're all seventeen, so you now have the right to choose where your lives lead you. You could work for the ministry, go into business for yourselves, or even start a family. All options are open."

Harry slumps back in his seat, running a weary hand through his hair. All of this…it's too much. He never thought he'd be allowed to even think of a future beyond defeating Voldemort. It's as though his entire life has been leading up to that final confrontation, like everything he's ever believed in or stood for has been based on the assumption that he'd eventually have to make the ultimate sacrifice, and now he feels like he's drifting, drowning in too many choices. It's a wonderful feeling, this sudden freedom to do whatever he wants; the problem is, though, he's not quite sure _what_ he wants.

"Well, as Kingsley says, you have some time," Mr Weasley tells them gently. "Talk it over. Figure things out. There's no immediate rush. We just want you all to know that the option is there if you want to take it."

Kingsley takes a last swig of his tea, emptying his cup. "I'd best be off," he says, standing from his seat. "I have a lot to do at the Ministry, and I suppose you all have a busy day ahead of you as well."

"Oh, won't you stay for a spot of breakfast?" Mrs Weasley asks as she begins sliding fried tomatoes and fat, juicy sausages onto a collection of plates. "There's plenty to go around."

Kingsley smiles at her, crossing to the fireplace. "I'd love to, Molly, but I really must be going," he says, tossing a bit of Floo powder into the fireplace. "I hope to see you all soon."

* * *

The Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, and Neville all apparate to Hogwarts early that afternoon. Harry's pleased and a bit surprised at the size of the gathering of people hanging about on the lawn, some of them holding bits of food as they mill about, others talking quietly in small groups, all of them with their sleeves rolled up, looking ready for work.

The mood of the group seems to be quite a bit lighter than yesterday, when wounds had still been fresh and people had been in the full swing of mourning. It seems that people have begun to make peace with what happened, with those they've lost. They've taken McGonagall's words to heart, and they're willing to pick themselves up and move on, to honour their loved ones by living full, happy lives.

A bit of cautious laughter drifts to Harry from a few of the groups as they pass, and he feels a warm smile begin to spread across his face. The darkness that had threatened to engulf them all, that had grown so powerful that he hadn't been sure they'd ever push it back, seems to be fading. The world is righting itself around him. Even if he's not sure where he's headed…that doesn't really matter. What's important is that these people, the ones that gave so much to defend their cause, can have a brighter future, can live to see another day.

As Harry makes his way across the grass, picking over the rubble and stones littering the normally pristine lawn, people turn to stare at him, silence falling across the gathering like a wave. It isn't the hushed, respectful silence of yesterday. No, this is different. It's anticipatory, excited, and Harry can feel the tension in the air as though it were a physical presence. He feels himself turn red and attempts to hide among the Weasleys, but even with the large size of their group, he sticks out. People crane their heads to get a better look at him as he passes, and he feels Ginny squeeze his hand a bit in support.

When they reach the crumbling steps leading into the castle, Harry glances over his shoulder and is startled to see them all staring up at him, clearly waiting for him to speak.

"It's alright," Ginny whispers in his ear. "Talk."

She gives him a small push forward then hangs back with her family to watch. Harry looks fervently over his shoulder, glaring at her half-heartedly. He clears his throat a bit awkwardly. "Erm…Hello," he says, not quite sure what they all expect him to say. "Well, I guess we're…er…starting the rebuilding of the castle today. If any of you are able to help, that would be brilliant. There's a lot to be done and…well…I know we've all been through a lot. Some more than others. And I know this is a hard time. But just a little help can go a long way. So…that's it, I suppose."

"Thank you, Mr Potter," an amused sounding voice says from behind him. He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Professor McGonagall fighting back a smile. "As Potter was saying, we can use all the help we can get. As far as I can tell, the wards on the castle have been completely taken down, so we should be able to repair the damage using magic. There may still be a bit of lingering protection surrounding the walls, though, so it may be necessary to get creative. If you're willing to help, we'd love to have you."

Once it's clear that McGonagall has finished speaking, an excited murmuring breaks out among the people on the lawn. After a moment, they break off into groups of three or four and get down to work, most of them still throwing glances up at Harry. He's about to follow a few of the Weasleys toward a particularly large piece of fallen stone when he feels McGonagall's hand tighten on his shoulder.

"Not so quickly, Potter," she says quietly. "There's something I want to discuss with you first."

She steers him through the doors of the castle and into the deserted Entrance Hall. Harry blinks his eyes, adjusting to the dim light that's barely seeping through the dusty windows. None of the torches have been lit, and he can just barely make out the features of McGonagall's face, pulled into a worried expression.

"What is it, Professor?" Harry asks her cautiously. He's not sure what it is about her expression that's making him so nervous, but a foreboding feeling has begun to curl in his stomach.

She takes a deep breath and fixes him with a calculating stare. "Draco Malfoy was arrested this morning," she says, her eyes narrowing. "While I'm not entirely aware of what transpired between the two of you this year, it seems to me that his proposed sentence of life without chance for parole is not entirely deserved."

Harry shakes his head, frowning as he stares down at his shoes. No, Malfoy doesn't deserve that. Even now that the Dementors have gone, Azkaban is still a terrible, desolate place. The boy may have done some horrible things over the years, but from what Harry's seen, most of them haven't been done entirely willingly.

"He saved my life," Harry says, still staring at the floor. "Twice."

"In that case, Potter, I think you should know that his trial is set for the first of June," McGonagall tells him, and Harry looks up at her sharply. "You are no longer my student, and while I can't control the things you say, I must urge you to exercise caution with how you use your power in this situation."

"My power, Professor?" he asks her, confused.

She shakes her head, a frown deepening the crease between her eyes. "There are more types power than just magic, Potter. Surely you must understand that?" she asks. "People listen to what you say, more so now than ever before. You have the power of public opinion on your side. No one, not even the Auror department, we will want to be seen publicly disagreeing with you. Potter, if you testify at Mr Malfoy's trial, you need to be very careful about the things you say."

"But Professor, I —"

She holds up a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I just want you to be absolutely certain about your feelings on the matter before you proceed. Whatever you tell the Wizengammot will likely sway their decision. If you make a bid for Malfoy's freedom, he will not go to prison," she says, looking at him cryptically. "Make sure that's what you want."

Harry runs a hand through his hair, thoughts swirling through his mind. Malfoy has spent the past seven years actively trying to make him miserable; why should Harry help him now? It's not something he's ever really thought about, and it's not as though he still owes Malfoy a life debt. They're two for two right now. Harry lets out a frustrated breath as Dumbledore's words from so long ago drift back to him. _The time may come when you will be very glad you saved his life_.

* * *

The actual rebuilding of the castle turns out to be much more time consuming and tedious than Harry had originally thought it would be. He obviously hadn't expected it to be _easy_; there are huge chunks of the castle blasted all over the grounds. But Hogwarts holds so much of its own magic that trying to repair it using levitation spells and replacement charms is nearly impossible. It's as though the castle itself is resisting their attempts, the last of the wards holding on to their remaining shreds of dignity as they push away the intrusive magic.

Once it's become apparent that conventional means are not going to have any effect, they spend the afternoon coming up with increasingly inventive ways to get the castle back together. Harry has been working on the same section for the better part of an hour, firing every spell he can come up with at it, but to no avail. The rock just lies there stubbornly, and Harry, exhausted from the effort, collapses, panting, with his back resting against it. His brain feels like a wrung sponge.

A shadow falls over him suddenly, and he turns to squint up at the person standing above him.

"Harry," Ginny says, her voice a bit shy. "Can I talk to you?"

Harry feels a sudden, inexplicable sinking in his heart. He knows the direction in which this conversation is going to go. And he wants it, he does. He really, really does. But he just doesn't think he's ready to have it yet. Despite the small amount of healing that he feels beginning to take place within him, he's still hurting, still wounded, still torn to shreds on the inside. He thinks of the piece of castle that he's resting against, wonders where it fell from. Had it been a wall? A floor? Who had walked across it, leaned against it before him? Who had fallen with it? A child?

He averts his eyes from hers before he speaks. "Sit," he tells her, trying desperately to push his worrying to the back of his mind.

Ginny sinks to the grass silently, staring out over the grounds toward the forest. Harry follows her gaze, past the crushed greenhouses, past the trees lying broken on the shores of the lake, past the charred remains of Hagrid's hut, toward the spot where he'd been carried out of the trees amidst Voldemort's followers, body limp and apparently lifeless. The expression on Ginny's face is strained, waxy, incomprehensible, and Harry wants to wrap his arms around her, pull her close and tell her it's alright. But he doesn't; he holds himself back. He's not sure what makes him do it, not sure why he's suddenly afraid to touch her. All he knows is that this grieving, distraught girl is not his Ginny, not the beautiful, vivacious, stubborn woman that he's fallen in love with.

"Harry, I…" she starts, her voice choked. "When Hagrid carried you out of the…when I thought you were…I don't think I could bare it if you'd actually been…" She struggles with her words, waffling for a moment, but ultimately falls silent again, unable to find the right way to express what she's feeling.

Harry picks at the grass in front of him, a horrible, twisted feeling in the back of his mouth. It's guilt again, the same guilt he'd felt the other morning, only this time it's much, much worse. He'd gone into the forest _intending_ to die, expecting to leave everything behind and never look back. He remembers the way he felt, knowing he was marching toward his death, each step carrying him closer to his final moment. He hears again the weeping of children as he left the castle, the screams of his friends as they fell from the towers, the bangs and crashes of spells ricocheting around long stone corridors. It had only been by accident that he'd survived, his final stroke of good luck. He can never tell Ginny this, at least not now, not when she's torn up and hurting.

"But I didn't," he says, still not looking up at her. "I'm right here."

"I know that. I do, I just…" she leans her head against his shoulder, and Harry feels a tightness in his throat. "I want you to know that I'm here. When you're ready, I'm here."

Harry feels relief spread through him as he wraps an arm tightly around her, kissing the crown of her head. He'd been afraid that she'd want to pick up right where they'd left off nearly a year ago, that she'd pressure him into starting up a relationship that he's not quite ready to have. But he should have known that Ginny, even with all her fire and passion, is also one of the most understanding people he knows. He loves her, and one day he hopes that he'll be able to give her the things she deserves, but right now…when things are so raw and fresh…he's not quite ready to love.


	4. Trial & Tribulation

—CHAPTER FOUR—

_Trial & Tribulation_

The next few weeks pass in a hazy blur of uncertain feelings, of grief and tears and learning to live in this strange new world. Harry can't get used to the knowledge that there aren't people out to get him anymore, that there isn't some omnipresent danger hanging over his head with every step that he takes. He spends most of his time at the Burrow, hidden away from the prying eyes of the public, lazily wasting away the warm afternoons and basking in the sunlight that has begun to creep in warm, happy rays across the back garden each evening.

Most of the healing that takes place during this time is physical. Mrs Weasley stubbornly insists that they sleep, that they recuperate and regroup after the ordeal that they've all been through. She fusses about Harry, Ron and Hermione constantly, making sure they've had enough to eat, fretting about the fact that they've spent the last year sleeping in the mud and living off scraps of stale bread. It's a nice feeling, Harry thinks, this ability to finally relax and feel secure after so much time on the run.

He has cautious encounters with Ginny through it all, reassures her that he hasn't given up on them, that he simply needs a bit more time to feel whole again, and she understands. She's been through a tough year as well, he knows, and he's infinitely grateful to Neville and Seamus and Dean and all the rest of them for sticking up for her, for getting in the way when the Carrows lost their tempers.

Through it all, though, Harry keeps a careful eye on the papers, watching the news for signs of a resurgence of Death Eater activity. There are a few scares along the way, a few deaths and moments of terror. All of them still have irrational bouts of paranoia now and again that somehow…some way…it will all happen over again. In their heads, they all know it can't, that nothing will ever be as bad as Voldemort, but it's hard to simply push the fear to the backs of their minds when bad things happen.

For the most part, though, the Death Eaters that have not been captured or sentenced to prison are disorganised and directionless, seeking to cause a bit of mayhem rather than true panic. The Ministry, under the guiding hand of Kingsley Shacklebolt, has been careful in changing its laws over the past month, cautious in its attempts at rebuilding. They've done a bit of restructuring, making Muggle Relations a more prominent part of the government, trying hard to ensure that history is not repeated.

Although Harry has begun to enjoy himself, has started to patch over the deep gouges made in his psyche by everything he's seen, he still has occasional moments of madness, of wishing it could have been anyone but him. He has flashes of anger, of fury, of absolute righteous indignation, and he wants to lash out against the world, against the people who are suddenly calling him their Saviour, the people who, just a few weeks ago, had forced him to lead an army. There are moments when he's fed up with the lot of them, with Snape for holding such a childish grudge for so many years, with Remus for leaving him all alone, but most of all with Dumbledore for concealing so many facts about Harry, for leading him like a pig to the slaughter, for not warning him that he would need to sacrifice himself. The fact that a piece of Voldemort, a portion of his soul, resided in Harry for seventeen years still makes him sick to the back of his teeth when he thinks about, makes him want to retch and scream and cry, gouge his eyes out and run, terrified, into hiding.

Through all this and much, much more, Harry forces himself to move forward. All the darkness he's seen over the years, all the terrible things, and he's still moved forward. There's something comforting in the thought that none of the Weasleys expect him to heal over night. The rest of the world, maybe, but not the Weasleys. With them he doesn't have to pretend, doesn't have to hide. He's allowed to have those moments, and he's allowed to shout about it and lash out viciously when he needs to.

One day, after one such tantrum, he's slumped moodily on a bench in the back, watching blankly as a garden gnome wrestles valiantly to dislodge its stubby leg from where it's been stuck between two fence posts. The absent thought of getting up to help it has just crossed his mind when Ginny slides down next to him.

She's silent for a moment, and the two of them sit there watching the gnome. After a while, Ginny begins to giggle at its efforts, and Harry glances over at her. Her smile is as radiant and joyful as ever before, and he can't quite imagine how she can be so much the same after everything that's happened. It's reassuring in a way, that things can still be normal.

"How is it that you can do that?" he asks her curiously, kicking at the dirt beneath his shoes.

Her laughter stills. "Do what?" she asks him, a smile lingering on her face.

"You know…that," he says frustratedly, waving his hand vaguely through the air. "You've been through so much, but you can still _laugh_. I wish I could do that."

She rests a gentle hand on his arm and smiles at him in a knowing way. She sways forward to kiss him, just once, chaste and quick. Harry allows it, knows that he probably needs a bit of human contact right now, something to ground him.

"Harry, people heal in their own ways," she says softly, her eyes open and understanding. "You have to give yourself time. The things you had to do…I wouldn't wish that on anyone. You'll get there eventually, but it's going to take time."

Her fingers squeeze gently at his forearm once, and then the hand is gone, placed back in her lap. Harry finds himself missing the warmth. "Yeah…I suppose," he says, his voice quiet.

"Besides, you've got a bit of unfinished business to attend to," she tells him, her tone upbeat once again as she tries to banish the dark thoughts brewing behind Harry's eyes. "Have you decided what you're going to do about Malfoy's trial yet?"

Harry groans and takes his glasses off, scrubbing a hand over his face. The trial is tomorrow, and he's still not entirely sure that letting Malfoy go free is the right decision. He's been called upon to give testimony and sit as a witness against a large number of the captured Death Eaters, and he's begun to feel as though he spends more time in the court room these days than he does at home. There hasn't been a single one yet that he's shown any leniency toward, and they've all been locked away in prison. But as he thinks of Malfoy, of the strained, almost painful look he'd had when he'd been asked to identify Harry, of the terrified note he'd had in his voice when he'd shouted at Crabbe to let Harry live…

"I dunno," he says, rubbing at the back of his neck and staring hard at the ground. "I think I might let him off. What do you think?"

Ginny hums a bit and runs a hand through her long hair, pushing it off her face. "Well, I don't know all that much about him," she says thoughtfully. "But he was at school for part of last year, and I don't think I've ever seen him look so bad. Whatever they did to him…I don't think he wanted it."

Harry looks up at her, his eyebrows raised. Sometimes, even after all these years, Ginny manages to surprise him. Every now and then, he still tends to think of her as a female version of Ron, and when she says things like this, takes so many things into consideration, he's always struck by the realisation that they're entirely different people.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" he asks her quietly, a smile playing across his lips.

She nods, and Harry can't help himself. He laughs, loud and full, throwing his head back and clutching at his stomach. He's not sure what's so funny, why this moment has struck him as particularly hilarious, but it's the first time in over a year that he's really let himself feel like this. He's vaguely aware of Ginny watching him with a fond smile on her face, and when he finally quiets down, he pulls her forward and kisses her, letting himself go.

"Thank you," he mutters when they part, his forehead resting against hers, and in this moment, he feels almost normal.

* * *

When Harry apparates to the Ministry next morning, he finds himself caught in the middle of a bustling crowd of witches and wizards, all hurrying to get to their offices. He tries hard not to glance over his shoulder at the new fountain that graces the main hall. The first time he'd seen it, he'd gotten quite the nasty shock. While he's glad that the horrible statue of crushed Muggles has been replaced, the new one makes him want to hide his face away. It's very similar to the one that had been in place before the government's collapse, except now the wizard who's holding his wand triumphantly in the air has a head full of messy stone hair and a set of round glasses planted firmly on his face.

People push past him as he treads the familiar path to the Wizengammot chambers, talking in tight little groups, some of them turning to stare at him as he walks away. A cloud of little inter-office memos zooms low over his head, and he ducks a bit to avoid them. When he straightens, people all around him are muttering.

"Is that who I think it is?"

"Harry Potter, are you sure?"

"Why is he here?"

"I hear he's friends with Minister Shacklebolt."

"That _is_ Harry Potter!"

He does his best to ignore the murmurs as he makes his way toward the crowded elevators, pushing resolutely through the throngs of people, the backs of his ears a bright, flaming red. "Harry!" someone calls over the heads of a nearby group of witches. Harry almost ignores it, almost keeps going, but the voice is deep and familiar. "Harry, over here!"

Harry turns in a circle, looking for the source of the voice. He spots Kingsley standing at the top of a flight of stairs with a group of assistants and bodyguards gathered tightly around him. Harry changes course, heading toward the Minister with a smile growing on his face.

"Kingsley," he says happily once he's reached the steps and broken free of the crowd. Harry hasn't seen him since the day after the war ended. "I wondered if I'd catch you this time!"

Kingsley shakes his hand, gripping it tightly with a friendly smile on his face. "The guard Aurors don't like it when I come out of my office too much, but I told them I'm not about to be attacked by Harry Potter. How are you doing? I haven't seen you since right after the war. I heard you've been staying with the Weasleys?"

Harry nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, it's been good. Relaxing, you know?" he says, shuffling his feet and glancing over his shoulder at the people who are still watching them curiously. "It lets me get away from it all a bit."

"Well, you look much more rested than the last time I saw you. Must be doing you some good," Kingsley says, smiling down at him. "How do you like our new statue?"

Harry throws him a traitorous glare. "You know bloody well how I feel about it," he says darkly, laughing in spite of himself.

"Ah, well, you give the people hope. I must admit, we did take a few liberties with your height," Kingsley says jokingly, laughing along with him. "No, but all kidding aside, what brings you to the Ministry? Have you given any more thought to my offer?"

Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I've thought about it," he says distractedly. "I've not really made up my mind yet, though. I'm actually here for the Malfoy trial. Do you know which courtroom it's being held in?"

"I was just on my down, as a matter of fact. I'll go with you," he says good-naturedly. "I don't remember seeing your name on the list for this one. Are you here to give evidence against him, or are you the card up his sleeve that I've heard the Aurors complaining about? No, wait, don't answer that. I shouldn't know beforehand."

Harry laughs as they climb into the elevators together, still closely flanked by the group of Aurors. He eyes a few of them cautiously, bulky and intimidating beneath their red robes. "I see you've got extra security now," he comments, suddenly feeling very small and scrawny.

Kingsley shrugs noncommittally. "The Auror Office insisted on it. They don't want anything happening to me. This is going to last at least until the end of the rebuilding," he says, and Harry can tell he's not particularly happy with the arrangement. "I hear they're working on Dark Detectors that can be set up to scan people before they enter buildings to make sure they aren't under Imperius."

"Like metal detectors at airports?" Harry asks curiously. Kingsley gives him an odd look, and Harry shakes his head. "Never mind. Muggle thing."

The elevator dings open, and they step into the all-too-familiar hallway that leads to the large courtrooms. "It's just down here. Courtroom seven," Kingsley says, guiding a somewhat reluctant Harry with a hand on his back. "Ah, here we are."

When they doors to the courtroom open, Harry's surprised to see that it's as full as he's only seen it in Dumbledore's memories of past trials. Of all the Death Eater trials that Harry's been a part of over the past month, none have looked like this. Perhaps it's because the Malfoys are such a prominent family or because the word's leaked out that he'd be here, but there are rows upon rows of people seated in the circle around the room, hardly any empty seats to spare. As Harry makes his way to a bench near the front, he keeps a wary eye on the chair in the centre of the room. He has a nasty feeling that it won't hold it's bindings back when Malfoy sits.

Honestly, he feels for a second as though he _is_ sitting in one of Dumbledore's memories. The way people's heads are all turned in the same direction, staring fixedly at the door. How no one seemed to look up when he entered. How not a murmur of talking can be heard in the silent room. He half expects Bellatrix Lestrange to be dragged through the door, flanked by Dementors, but when the doors do open, it's done by a group of Aurors, moving in a tight-knit formation. There are three of them, one leading the way, the other two walking on either side of Malfoy, each grasping tightly to one of his arms.

Malfoy isn't struggling or panicked. He isn't pale or frightened. This is not the boy that Harry's seen periodically wasting away over the past two years. He's dressed crisply in a high collared robe, his hair slicked back, head held high with all the pride that Bellatrix had demonstrated so many years ago at her own trial. This isn't the boy who had been unable to kill, who had gotten in over his head, who had clung so tightly to Harry's waist just a few weeks ago, screaming into his ear, terrified. No, this is a man who, if forced into the chance, will become his father, who will live up to the inheritance that comes with his name and all the cruelty and heartlessness that it demands. He's a man who's been hardened by war, who's knelt at his master's feet and seen him fall. He's acting the part of the perfect Malfoy heir, Harry can tell, and almost daring them not to send him to prison.

There's some part of Harry, a part of him that he probably would have ignored just a few weeks ago, that tells him that this _is_ the act. That the real Malfoy, the _Draco_, is the one he'd seen lain bare and sobbing, thrown over Blaise Zabini's cold, lifeless body. The one that had kept him from Voldemort and certain death. The one he'd pulled out of the blazing inferno in the Room of Requirement.

Malfoy glances around the room quickly before he sits, and he catches sight of Harry. Their eyes lock for the briefest of seconds, and Harry can see his jaw clench, something wild flickering in his eye before he's forced into the chair by the Aurors around him. The bindings come to life instantly, glowing golden and winding tightly around Malfoy's arms like snakes.

"Draco Malfoy, you have been brought in front of this court to answer to charges of Death Eater activity," Kingsley says from the opposite side of the room, his voice stern and businesslike. "Do you deny your involvement in said group?"

Malfoy hesitates for a second, his face contorting. "No," he finally grinds out, looking as though the words have been forced from him, and Harry understands. Veritaserum. They've been using it in all the trials as an extra precaution, but it's still jarring to see sometimes.

"And is it true that you, in full knowledge of all circumstances and under no forced hand, accepted the Dark Mark, widely recognised as the symbol of Voldemort's closest followers?" Kingsley asks, peering down at Malfoy.

"Yes," Malfoy spats.

"Mister Malfoy, is it true that you performed the Imperius Curse numerous times during your time as a Death Eater?" Kingsley asks.

"Yes."

"And is it true that you attempted the murder of Albus Dumbledore no less than three times?"

Harry sees Malfoy's hands clench tightly in their bindings, the only sign of discomfort as he answers. "Yes," he says in a terrifyingly calm voice.

"You also assisted a large number of Death Eaters in their entry into Hogwarts castle, participated in the torture of seventeen Muggles, and were directly responsible for the deaths of…nine Muggleborn witches and wizards. Is this all correct?" Kingsley asks, reading from the sheet of parchment in front of him.

Malfoy is silent for a moment, and Harry tries hard to figure out what's going through his head. Is he panicking? Scared? Remorseful? Or is he simply calculating the situation?

"Actually, sir, I believe it was eighteen Muggles," Malfoy says finally, his voice cold and emotionless.

"My mistake," Kingsley says, making a correction in his notes as one of the purple-robed wizards near him leans over to mutter something to his neighbour, eyebrows raised. "We have now heard all charges brought against you, and you do not deny any of them. Before we cast our vote, is there anyone here who wishes to speak on Mister Malfoy's behalf?"

Silence, complete and ringing and unbroken, sounds in the hall. Kingsley's eyes flicker to Harry and he nods, almost imperceptibly. Harry takes that as his cue, and he rises from his seat slowly, walking down the steps toward the centre of the room. The silence breaks very quickly as a murmur rises through the crowd like a wave.

Harry steps onto the floor of the courtroom, his knees shaking horribly. He's about to test McGonagall's theory on the power of public opinion. He can't imagine this will possibly work. How can it, with everything the court has heard against Malfoy? Even Harry is less convinced about his innocence than he'd been when he'd entered. Malfoy has committed some horrible crimes in the past two years, and Harry honestly isn't so sure anymore.

_Whatever they did to him,_ Ginny's voice rings through his head, _he didn't want it_.

Malfoy is staring at him, trapped in his chair and utterly bewildered. He frowns at Harry as though he thinks he's gone mad, and Harry turns his back on him to face the assembly of witches and wizards. He clears his throat nervously, and the murmuring stops almost instantly. "Minister Shacklebolt, people of the Wizengammot," he begins, his voice a bit shaky. "I'd like to present evidence on Mal—er—_Mister_ Malfoy's behalf."

"Go on," Kingsley motions, clearly hiding the hint of a smile.

"Draco Malfoy may have committed, well, some pretty horrible crimes," he says, suddenly not so sure of what to say. "But he also saved my life when he could have easily given me up. Since accepting the Dark Mark, he's shown unwillingness to commit the crimes that he has, and was prepared to accept help from Dumbledore before his death. He…he doesn't deserve to go to prison," Harry says, looking around at the large group of people, some of whom are watching him with excited expressions on their faces. "He was just a kid when he did all those things. He's still just a kid. He was too young to make decisions like that for himself. What would any of you have done if you'd been forced into something like that when you were barely sixteen?"

It feels a bit pathetic, honestly, in light of all the evidence that's just been given against Malfoy, but another wave of mutters has broken out amongst the crowd. Harry chances a glance at Malfoy, who is still staring at him rigidly. Malfoy arches an eyebrow sceptically and gives a nearly imperceptible eye roll.

"If all the members of the jury have made their decisions, I believe it is time to cast our votes," Kingsley says after a moment once all the lingering whispers have died out. "Those in favour of life imprisonment in Azkaban, please raise your hands."

Harry feels his breath catch in his throat. This is the moment of truth. Had his feeble attempt worked at all? Slowly, a few hands begin to rise. His heart pumping in his throat, Harry counts. Seventeen. That's all.

"And those in favour of acquittal?" Kingsley goes on once the numbers have been recorded. He raises his own hand, along with an overwhelming majority of the people sitting in the room.

Kingsley hits his podium with the gavel. "Draco Malfoy, you are hereby cleared of all charges. You are free to go," he says in his calm, even voice.

The bindings holding Malfoy to the chair retreat immediately, and he lifts his arms, flexing his hands. "Bloody tight things," Harry hears him mutter to himself as he stands. He turns to Harry, his face unreadable. "Potter, we need to talk. Outside?"

Harry nods silently, following him out of the room, back through the small door he had entered the courtroom through. People crane to get a good look at him as the door opens and they step back into the hallway, but silence falls as soon as the door clicks shut behind them.

"Potter, what the hell was that?" Malfoy asks him, rounding on him immediately once they're alone.

"That was me saving you from life in prison," Harry tells him challengingly, not quite meeting his eye. "Would you rather I didn't?"

"No," Malfoy answers immediately, and Harry looks up sharply.

"Are you still under Veritaserum?" he asks him, cocking an eyebrow.

Malfoy hesitates, glaring furiously at him. "Yes," he says painfully, and the word comes out as a snarl.

"Did you know it was me?" Harry asks him. "Back at your house, when your aunt tried to get you to turn me in. Did you know?"

Malfoy sighs and runs a hand through his hair, shaking it out of its slicked-back stiffness. "Yes," he says again, and this time he sounds resigned. "Look, I don't want to fight anymore. I'm just…I just need a bit of peace. Can we call a truce?" He extends a steady hand toward Harry, offering a shake.

Harry hesitates, thinking back so many years, so long ago, all the history between them. Nearly eight years ago, Malfoy had offered him the same hand, and he'd refused it then. Maybe it's time for him to finally lay aside old prejudices and take a chance. Maybe after all this time, they can finally resolve their issues. Maybe they can get along. He reaches forward and grasps Malfoy's hand in his, shaking firmly for a few seconds before releasing it. He knows they'll never be friends; there's been too much between them over the years. But maybe, just maybe, they don't need to hate each other anymore.

When Harry apparates back to the Burrow later that afternoon, it's with a content feeling in his heart that he hasn't known in a while. He feels like he finally did a good thing today. It may not have been expected or required, but he thinks he's finally starting to mend a few bridges.


	5. Reconciliation and Regrets

** Fred** — See, this is why I _love_ writing fan fiction. I get to hear other people's take on the story. It's interesting that you said that in your review, because I had never even considered it. When I was writing chapter 4, I never intended for Harry to be lying. The way I see it, and I don't think this is too much of a stretch, he was completely telling the truth. Through the glimpses of Draco that we see over the last two books, he's portrayed as sort of being the world's most reluctant Death Eater. Even though he started out as a one-dimensional bully early on in the series, I think his character really evolves to become something much deeper than that. He might have been willing and eager at first, but once he _realised_…once he understood how horrible the things he was being asked to do were, I think he began to change. I don't know, that's just my take on it. Differences in interpretation, perhaps?

**A/N:** I just want to say thanks to Cheeky Slytherin Lass for the prompts! I got stuck on this one and she really helped. :)

**A/N 2:** Sorry! _So much intro_. I wanted to let you all know that I've started back at school, so updates won't be quite as frequent. I won't give up on this, though! I promise! This is what I get for going to uni in America, where they start in August. I should have just stayed at home! All my friends from England don't have to go back until September. :(

—CHAPTER FIVE—

_Reconciliation and Regrets_

Harry wakes very suddenly one morning in the middle of June with his heart pounding in his throat. He reaches for his glasses and shoves them on his face, his other hand flying under his pillow to retrieve his wand as he turns quickly out of bed and stands. His eyes are wide as he desperately stares around Ron's darkened room. Something is wrong; something woke him up; something bad —

"Harry?"

He hears the quiet voice coming from the direction of the door, and he wheels around, his wand rising. His entire body is quivering, but his right hand is absolutely still, the wand pointing steadily in the direction of the noise. He's disorientated and confused, his heart pounding and mind reeling. He blinks as his eyes adjust to the light coming in from the corridor and he sees Hermione standing there, fully dressed, her hands raised slightly.

"It's alright, it's just me," she says softly.

Harry takes a slow, deep breath, calming himself, and after a moment, lowers his wand, tucking it into his sleeve. "Yeah, I…" he stammers, heart still racing a bit as he sinks back to sit heavily on the edge of the bed. "Sorry, 'Mione. You just scared me."

"It's okay," she says quietly, a concerned look on her face as she crosses the room to sit next to him. "I didn't mean to wake you like that."

"What time is it?" he asks, running a weary hand through his hair.

"About five-thirty," she tells him. "I was coming to say goodbye. Ron and I are leaving for Australia this morning, remember?"

"Right," he says, shaking his head as he stares at the floor. "Sorry, I think I'm just a bit…you know."

She rubs a hand up his back slowly and moves a bit closer to him. "Are you still having nightmares?" she asks him softly after a moment, her hand still moving soothingly up-and-down.

He nods. "Sometimes," he says, staring hard at the floor. "Not always. But I…when I do, I see them. Dying."

Hermione's arm wraps firmly around him, pulling him closer into her, her free hand coming up to tangle in the back of his hair and holding his head against her chest. He feels like a very small child, as though he's being cradled lovingly, and the feeling is one that's entirely foreign to him. His fingers curl tightly in the thin material of her jumper, a lump forming in his throat as she rocks him gently.

"Harry, that isn't something you should be ashamed of," she says after a long while, her voice just barely above a whisper. "The things you went through…anyone would be traumatised after that."

"But you and Ron…" he starts to protest, his voice coming out horribly twisted and raw. Her hand is firm on the back of his head, holding him close, but he can feel her shake her head.

"What Ron and I went through was terrible, yes," she agrees. "But I don't think anyone will ever properly understand how much you gave. You need time to heal, Harry."

"But how do I do that?" he asks thickly. He _wants_ to feel like a child, wants to feel vulnerable, wants to retreat into himself and be told what to do. The past few months, he's been directionless, drifting, and he's not quite sure where to go from here.

Her arms tighten around him once more, and she presses her lips firmly to his temple. "You'll figure it out," she mutters into his skin. She moves to rest her chin on top of his head, and when she speaks next, he can hear the smile in her voice. "Once you've finally decided to release your aunt and uncle from their safe house, that is."

Harry laughs weakly as he pulls away from Hermione, pushing his fringe off his forehead with a sweaty hand. "Thanks, 'Mione," he says weakly, adjusting his glasses. "You always know what to say."

She smiles at him, her hand resting on his knee. "You're going to be alright. Just give it time," she says. "But really, have you given any thought to the Dursleys? The last I heard, the Aurors still have them hidden away."

"I honestly hadn't," he says sheepishly, sighing. He looks up at the dark ceiling, thinking. "I should probably do that, huh?"

"The danger's mostly gone by now," Hermione says, standing back up and swinging her bag over her shoulder. She glances out into the softly lit hallway, an anxious expression on her face. "I'm going to have quite a job replacing my parent's memories."

Harry feels a pang in his chest at that; they'd given up so much for him. Ron, abandoning his family for a year to assist in the fight; Ginny, fiery and passionate and perfect for him, just waiting for him to be ready; and most of al Hermione, who had given up her parents, taken herself away from them so they'd be safe. He's not quite sure he deserves such good friends.

He wants to tell her it'll be alright, to reassure her that she'd done the right thing by modifying their memories. But he's looking at her in the muted light of Ron's empty bedroom, and he sees the lines etched in her skin, the fatigue and loss and loneliness, just as bad as he's been feeling. She's aged so much in the past year; they all have. The stress and hardships they've been put through are enough to age anyone.

"They'll remember, 'Mione," he says finally, peering at her from where he's sitting on the bed. "And they'll thank you."

"Yes, but…" she falters, then stops and shakes her head. She gives him a sad smile. "Thanks, Harry. We'll be back soon. I hope you feel better…"

"Bye, Hermione," he says quietly at her retreating back, watching her go.

She's one of the few people in the world that really _gets it_. The war, the fighting, the loss…it isn't a victory, and Hermione understands that. They won, sure, and things are slowly getting better all over the country, but they were touched by it in more ways than one. Parts of them, parts that had once been whole and shining, are now battered and worn, ready to give out. There's no glory in bloodshed, no dignity in death. Sometimes, Harry wishes more people would realise that.

* * *

He apparates to Privet Drive later that afternoon. He'd thought about letting the Dursleys go another few days, just out of spite, but now that Hermione had mentioned it to him, the thought just wouldn't seem to go away. He'd Flooed the Aurors that were guarding their safe house to let them know it was alright to release the family, and he _was_ going to leave it at that. He's done his duty by ensuring that they survived the war; he didn't owe them anything at all.

But then, just shortly after he had spoken with the Aurors, he'd gotten another Floo call at the Burrow. The man's face in the fire had looked anxious, and he kept glancing over his shoulder.

"What is it?" Harry asked, noticing his expression. "What's wrong?"

The Auror winced and glared over his shoulder. "He's just thrown the lamp at me! This is getting ridiculous!" he huffed, shaking his head. "Look, I don't know what's happened, but we went to check on their house before we came here to collect them, and…"

"Their house in Surrey?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes!" the Auror said, his voice suddenly a bit desperate. "We wanted to make sure no traps had been set up, you know? Just checking to see it was all safe and ready for them to move back in, but…it's _gone_. Absolutely gone."

Harry frowned, shaking his head. "What do you mean 'gone'?" he asked, confused.

"I mean…it's not there anymore. The house is gone," the Auror said. "Burnt to the ground, by the looks of it. I think you should meet us there. I have a Ministry car coming to pick up this lot in ten minutes, but they're not going to be happy when they see it. I've just told them what happened, and the man…he went mad! Started —"

"Yeah, alright, alright," Harry said, holding up a hand. He could fairly well guess what Uncle Vernon had done, could practically picture his reddening face in his mind. "I'm sorry about all this. I'll be there, though I don't think they'll be much happier to see me, if we're being honest."

So here he is, standing at the end of the street he'd grown up on. It's a place he thought he'd never visit again; there's too much haunting him here. In the distance, he can see the play park where he'd so much time hiding from Dudley, the corner where he'd first laid eyes on Sirius. He suppresses a shudder as he realises that everything looks almost exactly the same. The same perfectly manicured lawns, the same perfect neighbours waving from their driveways, the same perfect, gleaming cars parked on the street.

Everything looks the same, that is, except for number four.

Harry stands on the sidewalk, staring down into the crater that's formed where the house used to be. His expression is blank, mouth dry, and he can feel something cold and dreadful curling in his stomach. Even here, even in this place, the most ordinary of all streets…even it's been scarred by the unrelenting hands of war.

"The family that lived there disappeared just before the place burnt down," says a disapproving voice from his left. Harry looks up and sees the next door neighbour watching him carefully from where she's watering her begonias. "Collecting on the insurance money, I suspect. They're probably off laughing somewhere while we have to stare at their eyesore of a property."

Harry realises that she doesn't know who he is. He lived here for sixteen years, and this woman doesn't even recognise his face. "And no one knows what happened?" he asks her, raising an eyebrow.

The woman scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Well, we don't _know_ as such, do we?" she says in a conspiratorial undertone. "Oh, but everyone's got their guesses. I reckon they burnt the place down themselves and skipped off to an island somewhere."

Harry grunts noncommittally, not really wanting to talk to the woman anymore; she reminds him too much of Aunt Petunia. He turns away to look up the street just in time to see the Ministry car rounding the corner. The car pulls up at the curb, and Harry hears the woman's hose drop behind him.

"_I don't believe it_," she says in a shocked voice as the Dursleys begin climbing out of the car. Harry looks over his shoulder and sees her rushing back toward her house, no doubt off to alert the other neighbours.

Harry watches apprehensively as Vernon pulls himself out of the car. He knows, on the surface, that he's more than a match for his uncle. He knows he can't be pushed around or bullied anymore, especially not by a Muggle, but there's just something about it. Maybe it's being back in this place again, on this street and in front of the house where he'd taken so much abuse, but it makes him feel small and weak, like he won't be able to defend himself if Vernon decides to take a swing at him. The man mostly ignores him, though, barely sparing him a glance as he shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to stare at the place where the house used to be.

Harry hears Petunia's wail before he even really sees her, hears the shocked sob as his aunt rushes up the path and falls to her knees. She's crying, shoulders shaking as she stares at the crushed remnants of what used to be her home.

"Dudley's baby pictures…Lily's letters…" she's muttering to herself, stricken.

Harry watches grimly as Dudley moves to place a hand on her shoulder, comforting her, pulling her back up. His cousin seems to have lost quite a bit of weight since the last time Harry saw him. He's a bit surprised by this; he had expected him to put a few stone back on while he didn't have an outlet like boxing to keep him active. But it seems that the stress of the last nine months have done them all a bit of harm. Vernon has lost quite a bit of hair, and Petunia, thin and bony as ever, seems to have wrinkles beginning to spread across her hands and face.

With a resigned feeling in his heart, Harry clears his throat and steps toward the Dursleys cautiously. All three of them start when they see him, as though they hadn't even noticed he was there.

"I'm…er…sorry about the house," he says awkwardly, hands still shoved in his pockets. He bounces on his toes a bit. "

There's a long, uncomfortable pause in which they stare at him, open-mouthed.

"You've done it, then?" Dudley asks after a moment, glancing at his parents. "It's over?"

Harry nods, his mouth forming a thin line. "Yeah…the house is my fault, though," he says, averting his eyes to stare at the charred pieces of wood littering the ground. "They must have come looking for me here."

"We never knew…all those things you've done," Petunia says quietly.

Harry looks up at her sharply. "And would that have changed anything?" he snaps, his tone suddenly angry. "Would you have _respected_ me? Or would it have just made you more afraid?"

His aunt looks down, and Harry sees a flicker of shame cross her face. He doesn't feel bad for her…not really. He understands now why she was so terrible to his mother. He's seen the jealousy that crossed her face as a child, watched her reaction to Snape. It's still hard to reconcile, though. Seeing his aunt now, he can't imagine how this woman could possibly have anything to do with his old Potions Master. They're just two so entirely different people; they come from radically different worlds. But somehow, they have a shared history.

Now that Harry thinks about it, he realises that Petunia and Snape share _more_ than just a history. Their reaction to the things that have happened in their lives is almost eerily similar. Snape, furious over losing the woman he loved to James Potter, heartbroken and filled with regret at the things that he had said, took it out on Harry; he couldn't bare to see the eyes of the woman he loved on the face of the man he had despised. Petunia, on the other hand, spent her life bitterly jealous of her sister, all the while desperately craving her attention. Is it really so unbelievable that she would shut Harry out? Harry, who had been born with all the things Petunia had ever desired?

Harry shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not here to yell at you all," he says, kicking at a pebble under his shoes. "We've all just come out the other end of a war, and, relatively speaking, you've been lucky. Most families lost a lot more than just their houses."

"Did you?" Dudley asks him, looking as though he's unsure whether he should speak or not. "Lose someone, I mean?"

Harry's jaw clenches. "I lost a lot of people," he tells him firmly, meeting his cousin's eye. "That's what happens during a war."

He stares at them all standing there, silent, and he wonders what's going through their heads. Are they hurting, confused, scared? Did they worry about him at all during this past year? Will they ever understand how terrible things were? Harry doubts it. He shakes his head.

"I suppose you're all fine," he says curtly, throwing one last glance at the ruined house. "So I'll be off, then."

He turns to start back down the street, heading for the alley that he chose as an apparition point. Just as he's begun to walk, he hears Aunt Petunia clear her throat.

"I'm sorry," she says, voice almost a whisper.

Harry doesn't acknowledge her, doesn't even hesitate as he keeps moving. He's not ready to accept her apology. Maybe, in a few years…when things feel less immediate, when he doesn't have as much weighing on his mind…maybe then. But not now. For now, he needs to work on himself. He needs to find a way to make things better.


	6. Moving Forward and Looking Back

**A/N:** I'm sorry this has taken me such an obscenely long time to get up. :/ I've been terrifyingly busy over the past week, buried in school work and all. But I absolutely swear I will keep updating this. It's just a matter of finding the time and inspiration to write. I'm juggling **four** WIPs right now, so it's a bit difficult to keep track of it all. But I hope you like this, and _please review_! :D

**A/N 2:** This chapter doubles as my entry for The Letter Competition over on the HPFC Forum.

—CHAPTER SIX—

_Moving Forward and Looking Back_

"I've decided I'm not going back to Hogwarts."

Mr Weasley raises his eyebrows and blinks a few times, nodding. "And you're sure?" he asks carefully.

Harry nods, glancing around the kitchen of the Burrow. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the scrubbed-wood table and lacing his fingers together. It's a beautiful August afternoon; sun is streaming in through the windows, dishes are washing themselves merrily in the sink and he can hear Ginny laughing with Ron in the back garden as they degnome the flower bushes.

"I need to move forward with my life," he says, taking a deep breath and running his hand through his hair. "If I go back, it'll just be like standing still. I've got to find a way to make some progress."

"Well, I can tell you Kingsley'll be pleased," Mr Weasley says, smiling at him across the table. "If you want, I can speak with him tomorrow and we can get you into the training programme first thing next week."

"I'd like that," Harry says, feeling a bit of relief run through him.

He's felt stuck lately, like he's wasting away here at the Burrow. He's endlessly grateful to the Weasleys, of course, but it's just…it's hard to move on with his life when he's constantly reminded of how much is missing. Even though they've all begun to heal, all begun to laugh again, there's still brief, sombre pauses every now and again when George turns to his left and finds Fred missing or when Harry reads something in a book that he thinks Lupin would find interesting. It's tough, knowing that he'll never have those people back again.

"I'm very proud of you, Harry," Mr Weasley says quietly after a moment. "Not just for this…but for everything you've done. You're going to make a great man some day. I hope you know that."

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his face going red. "Thanks, Mr Weasley," he says honestly. Though that had been unexpected, it means a lot coming from the man that's been like a father to him for years. "I really —"

But just then, Mrs Weasley bustles into the kitchen, brushing a bit of dirt from her apron and smiling at them both. She peers out the window at Ron and Ginny and tuts reproachfully.

"_Still_ working on the degnoming?" she mutters to herself, sliding the window open and raising her voice. "Oi! You two! Move it along. We've got to start getting the tables out there for dinner soon."

She slides the window shut and points her wand at a pile of carrots, which begin to chop themselves into smaller pieces. She reaches for something on the counter and turns, smiling, to Harry.

"This came for you earlier, dear," she says, handing him a letter. "I'm not sure what it's about, but I think it came from Gringotts."

Harry turns the heavy, official looking envelope over in his hands and sees the bank's logo embossed in gold leaf on the seal. A feeling of dread washes through him as he slides his finger under the top to open the letter. He really hopes this isn't what he thinks it is; the last time he dealt with the bank, he'd been robbing the place, and goblins aren't ones to quickly forget things like that. He pulls the thick sheet of parchment out and unfolds it carefully.

_Mr Potter_, it reads.

_There are a few financial matters of the utmost importance that must be discussed with you at your earliest possible convenience. Several estates, placed in trust until you came of age, have recently been transferred to your vault, and it is our duty to make you aware of the conditions surrounding these accounts. _

_It is your right to elect for these accounts to continue to be handled as they have been in the past. We recommend this option, as we have some of our best goblins working to ensure the safety and continued growth of your fortune. If this is your decision for the time being, simply send us a return owl authorising our continued management of your accounts._

_More importantly, though, is the letter included in this document. As a part of your parents' last will and testament, they asked that it be passed on to you when you had reached legal age. As per their request, we have enclosed it for your perusal._

_Normally, these matters would have been handled on or immediately after your seventeenth birthday, but due to certain extenuating circumstances, that was not possible. We hope you will forgive the delay in these proceedings, as I am sure you understand the difficulty in securing a meeting with or contacting you during the past year. _

_Hoping you are well,_

_Rakespier_

_Head Goblin, Gringotts Bank, London Branch_

Harry frowns down at the letter, rereading it carefully. Not once does it mention his theft, his break-in, his disastrous escape from the bank on the back of a dragon. The only bit that sounds remotely hostile is the last sentence, but considering everything he knows about goblins, even that is almost friendly.

"What's it say?" Mrs Weasley asks him, coming to stand with a hand on the back of his chair.

"It's…they just want to discuss my accounts with me," he says, shaking his head in confusion, consciously leaving out the part about his parents. He wants a chance to look that over on his own. "They say I've come into my inheritances and we need to speak about it."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Mrs Weasley asks, turning back to the stove. "You could find yourself a place to live with that. Not that we mind having you, of course, but I know what being eighteen is like. I'm sure you want your own space."

"Yeah, of course," Harry says distractedly, sliding the bank's letter to the side slightly and peering down at the handwritten, careworn piece of paper beneath it. He stands from his seat, glancing up at the Weasleys. "You know, I think I'm just going to head upstairs for a bit…look this over…"

"Of course, dear," Mrs Weasley says, looking at him curiously. "Don't forget, dinner will be ready in a bit."

Harry nods slightly as he turns toward the door, his hands shaking as he folds the letter carefully and places it back into its envelope. He hurries up the stairs to Ron's room, closing the door behind him and sinking onto the bed, staring down at the parchment in his hands, heart knocking around in his chest.

His parents…they'd written him this letter. It's different from all the other times he's been able to see them through memories or as echoes of who they'd been. This is something just for _him_, something that they wrote out specifically intending that he see it. His fingers tremble as he pulls the parchment back out of its envelope and shakes it open, quickly laying Rakespier's letter to the side.

He begins to read, his throat suddenly feeling very tight.

_Dear Harry,_

_If you're reading this, then I can only assume that he's found us and that we weren't able to hide you away from all the danger in the world. But as sad as I am about that, it also means that you've done it — you've made it to your seventeenth birthday. I'm sorry that I wasn't there to watch you grow up, but I hope you know that everything I've done since the first time I held you was out of love. _

_As I'm writing this, I can see you tottering about in the back garden with Sirius, and he's swinging you round in his arms. You've just learnt to walk, and your mum is afraid that you're going to fall and break your neck, so she's gone through the house and charmed all the corners and steps to keep you safe. You're only fifteen months old right now, so I suppose you won't remember any of this, but I hope you're as happy now at seventeen as you were here._

_We're going into hiding soon, so maybe I'll be around long enough for you to know me. I hope that one day, I can watch you go off to Hogwarts and be sorted into Gryffindor. (If you aren't, I'll disown you, I swear.) I want to be there when you get a dozen OWLS and all your NEWTs. I want to stand up at your wedding and smile. I hope I can hold my grandchildren someday like I've held you. But I know none of that will happen._

_I hope you've had a good life so far, Harry. I hope that it hasn't been sad or painful, because no parent wants that for his child. I hope that Sirius and Remus and Peter have been able to tell you stories about us, and that they've done a bang up job of raising you. I still worry, though. Of course I do. I'm your dad. That's my job._

_Did Sirius teach you to fly well enough to make it onto the house team? Did Moony make you read too many dusty old books when you were small? Has he turned you into a Ravenclaw?! Have they taught you to use the map and the cloak yet? (I hope they have, or they aren't the friends I thought they were.) Do you all live in a big house in the country with lots of space to run and laugh and play Quidditch? Because these are all the things I want for you if I can't be there to do them myself (except the Ravenclaw bit, of course) and I really, truly hope you have an excellent birthday._

_I love you, Harry, and I'll spend the rest of my life, however long that may be, doing everything in my power to prove it. You've brought so much joy into our lives, even during these dark times. I can only hope that you're able to find a bit of joy for yourself. Have a great life, Harry, and live it as fully as possible. Love as many people as fiercely and as truly as you can. Laugh a little every day, even when things seem like they've gotten too bad for you to smile. Make your life a good one, and always keep us in your heart._

_All the love in the world,_

_Dad_

Harry lowers the letter slowly, tears stinging in his eyes. Despite the ache in his heart, though, he can feel a real, genuine smile beginning to spread across his face for one of the first times since the end of the war. It's as though a part of him that had been missing until now, a part that he's been longing for his entire life, has suddenly been patched up and filled in.

"I love you too, Dad," he whispers quietly, folding the parchment and placing it neatly back in its envelope.

He feels as though this is a turning point for him. He can finally begin to make his life whole again. _Love fiercely and truly_. _Laugh every day_, he repeats to himself. He stands from his spot on the bed, wiping a hand over his face to clear away any lingering tears. It's time to go find Ginny, he thinks, and have a long-awaited conversation.


End file.
